


Strange Reys of Light

by PastelWonder



Category: Doctor Strange (2016), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Star Wars, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Daddy!Kink, Daddy-baby Dynamics, Drabbles, F/M, Fluff, I'm making this a thing now, Rey is a cutie, Romance, Smut, Stephen has a new lease on life, Strey, Wong is Mama-Wong, all of the smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-11
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2019-09-16 01:42:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16944597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelWonder/pseuds/PastelWonder
Summary: Life gets supremely sweeter for a certain Master of the Mystic Arts when Rey finally understands the belonging she seeks is not behind her.It's at 117A Bleecker Street.The Force works in mysterious ways...





	1. Those Jakku Girls

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Inspirationalmisquotes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inspirationalmisquotes/gifts).



> This is a collection of Strey (Rey/Strange) drabbles and one-shots.
> 
> Thank you to Inspirational, who is the reason this pairing lives. Strey all day, baby.

“Rey?”

Stephen stops on the landing between levels of the sanctum and listens.

Nothing.

“Wong? Have you seen Rey?”

Wong appears at the banisters above him, holding an open book in his hand. _The Pioneer Woman Cooks._

_Typical._

“Lady Strange said she was cold.”

“So she… what? Took a plane to the Caymans?” he cycled his hands, “Help me connect the dots here, Wong. Where is my lady now?”

Wong closes his book and crosses his arms over the cover. _Clearly, you are a simpleton,_ his look says.

“She went up to the roof.”

“Oh right, the roof,” Stephen slaps his forehead. His eyes narrow up at Wong, _Asshole_. “What was I thinking?”

Wong waddles off without dignifying his question with an answer.

It is cold, Stephen concedes privately as he climbs through the sanctum for its roof. It’s March in New York City, they’ve had endless weeks of cold skies and bitter frosts punctuated by slick, freezing showers that drench everything in miserable wet. Even now, when the sun shows its face, still small and far from their hemisphere, the nearby buildings tower, casting long, cool shadows over the sanctum that wash the windows grey and darken the hallways before night falls.

His summer child rails bitterly against the cold.

They sleep under five and six blankets, a mishmash of quilts and furs and drafty crocheted pieces she’s pilfered from the empty rooms. In the evenings, she has her routine. A bowl-sized mug of hot chocolate gulped down by the fireplace, with a marshmallow crust so thick it reminds him of French onion soup. Then she strips down her socks and calls him to make love to her in front of the fire.

By the end of it, he’s trembling and sweating like he’s in a sauna, suffocating on heat and the soft, prey-like sounds of her orgasm. She leaves him like that, a cooling mess on the floor with a faint film of sticky sugar around his mouth and sometimes - blessedly - around the base of his cock, and scurries into their bedroom to trap his lingering warmth under the covers.

He’s her hot water bottle, Stephen. Supreme Sorcerer. Neurosurgeon. Master of the Mystic Arts.

She sleeps tucked into the hollow spaces his ribs have made for her, stealing his heat with her small hands folded on his chest. Holding his heart.

 Yes, he thinks as he takes the stairs that lead directly to the rooftop two-at-at-time, he is magnanimous.

The sunlight in his eyes when he opens the rusted door is somewhat unexpected. He flinches, pupils straining to adjust.

“- tell him constantly, you cannot add a booster without shaking apart the interior of your ship, but he never listens-”

Her voice is coming from the other side of a low metal vent.

_Who is she talking to?_

“Rey?” As he rounds the output, warm, fragrant steam wafts up softly through its grate.

Wong must be drying laundry in the basement.

She beams up at him from the gravel. “Stephen!”

His heart stops.

She is completely naked.

Her bare ass gleams like a pearl in the early sunlight, its warmth pooling in the lush dip of her lower back. She’s laid out on a blanket, legs crossed at the ankle, propped up on her elbows and holding court with-

“I should have known.” He folds his arms, his big shape casting a shadow over her back. Not nearly enough to hide her. Warily, his eyes scan the skies for drones before they return to glare down at her accomplice.

“Peppa.”

The pig is sat up against the vent, her tutu cast capriciously on the gravel beside her.

“This is your idea, I presume.”

Her threaded eyes stare back at him blithely.

“Peppa can’t talk, Stephen. She’s a doll.” Rey rolls over and stretches. Her little rose-tipped breasts glory in the sun. “Come lie down with me.”

His eyes slide down to her plump, smooth sex.

No, he will not get hard. He will _not_.

“Rey,” he enunciates every syllable, “put your clothes on, now.”

“But it’s warm,” she whines. Her eyes are closed, her arms make lazy wings in the lining of the blanket.

_Wait, not a blanket. That’s-_

“You.” He points at his cloak.

Its collar lifts sheepishly.

“Coward,” he spits, “You know better.”

It shrinks back, penitent, then rises haughtily against his glower.

“Oh, protecting her, were you?” He nods, “Yes, I can see that. Well, remember this moment tonight when I _throw you into the fire_ -”

“Stephen!” Rey gasps, as if he’s just picked up a plate and smashed it during a perfectly civil dinner party. “What in the galaxy is wrong with you?”

He scrubs the insanity building behind eyes and wills himself not to shout.

“Do you not see,” each word is carefully pronounced, “what is wrong with this picture?”

One eye squinting cutely against the sun, she sits up and surveys the rooftops. Across the street, a pigeon _croo-croos_. “There are no people here. And it’s private-”

“It is a _roof, Rey_ -” _No, no yelling. You can do this without yelling. Breathe, Stephen. Stay centered._

“I used to lie on my hut like this all the time back on Jakku,” she’s saying, “I learned it from the lizards, that’s how they stay warm. I know _I’m_ not a lizard, but I am warm now. And I came up here, and not the courtyard. I remember you didn’t like when I took off my clothes in the courtyard, so I didn’t go there.”

Her shoulders slump. His cloak comes around to cover her as she looks up at him with both eyes open, big and puzzled. “Am I wrong again?”

From her seat in the stands, Peppa judges him.

He sighs.

“No, you’re right.” He kneels in front of her on the gravel. It digs with a thousand sharp noses into his shins. It’s not a tenth of the pain he’s felt in his life. And that is not one hundredth of what life has dealt her. “This place is wrong. But you are perfectly right.”

A cold breeze curls past them. He cinches the cloak gently around her bare body and drags her into his lap.

She smiles, dimples peeking up at him as she says, “I think you’re always the perfect place for me.”

His heart aches. He kisses her.

His hands on her sun-warmed skin beneath his cloak is everything.

She is everything. 

_Rey. Baby, baby Rey._

“Baby,” he cups her face. Their lips still touch. “Come with me. I’ll take you somewhere warm. I’ll take you right now.”

“Will you sex me?” her voice is soft and sweet.

He laughs, closing his eyes. Whose lottery did he steal?

He smirks, remembering the boy with black eyes and a blazing scar.

_Oh yeah. That guy’s._

“Night and day,” he croons to her. “I’ll sex you night and day.”

She beams.

_Beautiful._


	2. I Can Tell That We Are Gonna Be Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone at Stark Manor is curious about the Master of the Mystic Art's new consort: a freckle-faced Force angel with a feral streak. One plucky Avenger in particular is dying to get to know her, and he's brought the perfect ice-breaker: Sour Patch Kidz.

“Hey Rey, it’s me. Peter Parker. Yeah, I know. I look even taller without the suit.”

_Ugh, that sounds so lame-_

Peter tucks his thumbs under the straps of his backpack and checks the brass plate on the brick sidewall one more time.

_117A Bleecker Street._

A match for the address Mister Stark sent.

Peter cranes his neck and leans back to see all the way up to the top of the sanctum.

The tall, somber building sprawls long and ominous under the dense autumn sky. Inside the great circular window leering down at him like a cyclops’s eye, a figure is watching him.

Her head cocks, the motion vaguely suspicious as she studies him against the sidewalk.

He waves.

She starts and withdraws.

The wind snaps its jaws, so crisp-cold it stings his nose as trash and dried leaves swirl past his sneakers and collect in bright pockets on the broad stone steps leading up to the massive doors.

To one side of the arched entry, down on the stone landing, a carved jack-o-lantern with a gaping smile makes a lone, cheerful greeter.

He hitches his knapsack higher, feeling its contents shift. He’s brought the good stuff - Mountain Dew: Code Red, sour gummies, magic cards and three of his favorite mangas. A welcome backpack. Except, he has to take the actual backpack home with him when he leaves.

Aunt Mae will kill him if he doesn’t.

“Hey Rey, it’s Peter. Peter Parker. I was just… in the neighborhood…” he takes a deep breath, chill air pricking at his lungs. “You can do this, man. You got this, man. You totally got this.”

 

 

Inside the sanctum is even more foreboding. A cold, dark foyer with marble floors and expensive-looking antiques proceeds a grand three-level staircase. It smells like a museum, old books and musty carpets, but also – oddly – baking. Something cinnamon and sweet.

He makes it past the Chinese vases and halfway across the oriental rug at the foot of the stairs when a man appears from nowhere.

He is Asian and severe.

“Can I help you?” he asks.

Dimples flashing, Peter extends his hand, “Hi, I’m Peter.”

The man’s eyes flick from his to the attempted handshake and back. He keeps his hands clasped behind him.

He does not smile.

_Okay. Weird._

Peter clears his throat and tries again. “I, um-I came to see if Rey’s home-”

That must be the wrong thing to say, because suddenly the man’s expression transforms from bland to sharply wary. His gaze sweeps over Peter.

“What business do you have with Lady Strange?”

_Lady Strange?_

Peter hand still hangs between them, forgotten in his confusion. “I… don’t have any business- I’m just kinda, you know,” he shrugs, “dropping by-”

The man steps closer, his long dark robes rustling like the wings of a bat.

“Dropping by to see the consort of the Sorcerer Supreme?” his already small eyes narrow impossibly, “How unorthodox.”

Peter’s keen senses tell him the only reason he’s still standing is because the man’s hands are still behind his back.

He blanches. “I, uh, definitely wasn’t going for that-”

_C’mon, Pete, use your words!_

“I brought her some stuff,” he rushes one strap off his shoulder and swings the backpack around so that the zipper is under his chin as he flounders, “it’s just some Earth-stuff, you know. To show her?”

His hand fumbles around inside before he produces two Japanese comic books and a pack of watermelon-flavored Twizzlers.

The man’s eyebrow arches. Peter sees his left arm twitch out of his periphery.

_Oh snap._

“Mister Parker,” a familiar voice rumbles quietly from above.

Peter almost yelps with relief, using both his hands and a knee to juggle his welcome packet as he and the man turn at the same time towards the staircase.

“Doctor Strange, hi! Can you please tell this guy you know- whoa…”

Up on the landing between the first and second floor, dressed in his usual blue robes and red cloak, with the Time Stone hanging like a periapt against normalcy around his neck, stands the strikingly imperious Doctor Stephen Strange. And on his arm, halfway hidden behind him, is a girl in a long, dark red gown.

_Rey._

Her hair is gathered elegantly on top of her head, tear-shaped earrings the same ruby hue as her dress hang down to her shoulders. The sleeves of her gown loop over her thumbs, her fingers are covered in delicate rings with multicolor stones that wink in the light as she tightens her grip Strange’s arm. Her lips, painted red, pinch to one side. She studies him warily beneath her lashes.

His heart trips, beating fast as he raises his hand and waves. “H-hey Rey, it’s Pe-”

The backpack slips. He scrambles to catch it.

Her eyes dart, bright and intelligent, watching him as she shifts back even further behind Strange, her small height eclipsed by his broader, majestic one.

Peter’s ears burn like matches.

_Hey Rey, it’s Pee? Nice one, dipstick-_

On the landing, Strange is speaking to her in low murmurs.

“But I don’t know him,” she says, loud enough to be heard from the street. She’s anxious and insistent.

Rather than offend Peter, it squeezes his heart.

“Hey,” he sets his backpack by his feet on the floor and holds up his hands in what he hopes is the intergalactic symbol of surrender _._ “I’m not gonna hurt’cha. I just… wanted to say hello.”

He gives her his best smile, dimples on full-blast. “Hello, Rey.”

She stares at him for a long moment, thinking.

Strange waits, as if the naked silence is perfectly natural.

Peter holds his breath.

Finally, she comes around Strange to stand beside him. Both of her hands still hold his arm.

“Hello, Peter Parker,” she says. Her lips quirk up at one corner.

Peter beams.

They’re going to be best friends.


	3. The Light of Hidden Flowers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another smutty Monday at the Sanctum Sanctorum...

“Stephen,” she whimpers, arching into him.

His hand threaded through her hair cradles her head, he slides the other up inside her little panties to grip her ass cheek firmly. Her thighs, already sweat-slick and quaking, ride his hips as he grinds her. He finds that spot in her neck, below and a little behind her ear, and suckles sweetly as he flexes, baring his steel-hard, naked cock through the soaked cleft of lace between the lips of her cunt. She keens and bucks up again, harder, panting like a bitch in heat as he runs his wet tongue over her sweet spot.

“Stephen,” she groans, her little fingernails raking achingly over his scalp. “ _Fuck_ -”

His fist closes in her hair, twisting just enough for her scalp to tingle and static to crackle behind her eyelids. He turns and presses his lips, damp and swollen from loving her, and gravels into her ear, “Language, young lady.”

“Stephen,” she bleats out, his sweet little lamb, and now it’s his turn for his gut to clench and his heart to pound against his ribs like it’s coming to get her. “Stephen, _please_ …”

He lays her down in the sheets and rises, shushing her softly when she whimpers and clambers for his shoulders. He catches her hands in his, kisses each one of her fingertips as he looks into her wide, pleasure-hazed eyes.

“I love you,” she pants up at him. The rise and fall of her breasts chases her breath, her belly hollowing with every shaking exhale. Her lips are parted, she’s still climbing his hips, trying to urge him into her through the gusset of her panties. “I love you so much.”

He lowers until her wrists are pinned to the pillow above her head and their mouths are almost touching. He can taste her breath, warm and sweet on his tongue, as he tells her, “I love you, baby. That’s why I’m going to fuck you the right way.”

“Stephen,” her eyes pinch shut, she tips her head back, tugging weakly at his grip. “Please, I want you in me.”

He smirks just before he kisses her, reaching deeply, sucking her tongue and stroking firmly along her palate, showing her with his kiss what he plans to do to her body. She tries to swallow him whole, to kiss all of his mouth at once, and pumps her little sex against his cock through her panties. He’s whispering the incantation before their lips have finished parting.

“No…” she mews, low and mournful, as silk bindings materialize out of the softly sizzling air and wind sensually around her wrists.

“Yes,” he murmurs definitely in her taut, damp skin as he goes seeking her pleasure, drawing long, slow kisses across the apex of her neck and shoulder and along her throat. The bindings tether her to the headboard with a lead long enough for her elbows to touch over his head as he takes his time winding a hot, humid path to her breasts.

“Stephen,” she’s straining, her head lifting off the pillow, the tip of her pink tongue touching her teeth, whole body quaking as she watches him where he’s hovering open-mouthed over her breast. “I’m going to scream…”

He licks his lips, slowly, deliberately, letting her imagine what he’s about to do to her before he does it.

“So scream,” he tells her sweetly, and draws her nipple into his mouth.

She doesn’t scream – _Yet_ , he thinks – but she does wail, long and tortured, her head falling back on the pillow as he trails just the tips of his trembling fingers over her ribcage, down the curves of her waist, up the rise of her thighs, and back. Rasping, whisper-soft touches as his tongue circles and laps and his lips pucker and suckle deeply. His big body pins her hips to the mattress, he circles his length in slow, lazy loops, pooling the blood under her skin right where he wants it as her cries climb higher.

Their room is warded, no one can hear her pretty begging but him. Still, he pretends they can, that the music he’s plucking out of her body string-by-string fills the halls and still spaces between the relics. He wants them – wants everyone – to know, _Yes, I’m fucking her._

 _And she_ loves _it_.

“Stephen… Stephen…” He’s dragging his tongue down her stomach, savoring the taste of desperation and sweat and the quake of her little belly as her cunt twists and grasps at nothing. When he chases the rim of her belly button and dips in to collect the sweat that’s pooled there, she pulls so hard on her bindings the headboard rattles. “Oh Force, Stephen…”

His eyes meet hers through the valley of her breasts. She whimpers, “Please let me go,” so pitifully his cock leaps and slaps weeping against his abs.

“Now, why would I do that…” His hands, shaking from more than nerve trauma, smooth flat-palmed and soothing up the sides of her trembling thighs. He pauses, parting her wide, before he looks into her eyes and tells her, dark and deep, “When I have you right where I want you.”

Her breath hitches. She lets out a little sound like a sob.

“Baby,” he calls her, before he closes his eyes and buries his nose in her sex.

She smells so good, like something he shouldn’t have, something that belongs to him, something he can’t get enough of. He slides his middle fingertip under the elastic seam of her panties and peels sideways until her labia pops out, pink and swollen and glossy, and he sees her slit glistens in the low lamplight.

“You’re so fucking wet, Rey,” he murmurs as he lets his index finger slip through the slick dribbling past her lips. Her flesh tightens and jerks when the rough pad brushes her clit, he hears the headboard rattle over her sharp whimper.

His eyes find her over the fast, shallow rise-fall of her belly as he sluices his finger through her sex again. “You want it so badly, don’t you, baby?”

She nods, so frantically. “Yes-”

“You want me to fuck you like this-” he presses into her, strangling privately when he feels how tightly wrung she is, when he has to make himself fit down to the knuckle. Her eyes close and her head falls back.

“You want me to fuck you with your panties on-” Impossibly, her cunt twists tighter as he starts to fuck her with long, even strokes of his finger. “Can you come like that, baby, if I shove my cock in your little pussy and put my hand over your mouth?”

“Stephen-” is all she can choke out as her back bows deep and lovely, the bottom of her ribcage pressing up through her skin and her belly drawing taut enough for him to see the muscles ripple as her hips bear down on the mattress and her walls bear down on him.

“I was going to eat your little pussy first-” he watches his finger slip through her swollen lips, slick dribbling out of her like ambrosia, and licks his lips. He really does love devouring her, bathing in her taste until it coats him chin to chest.

But-

“Please, Stephen,” her knees are drawn up to her chest, deepening his penetration. “I promise I’ll be good... I’ll be so good… so good… Stephen-”

 Eyes still on her face, pinched and beautiful, he lowers his head and slides his tongue through her slit, finding the dip in her clit and the bundle of nerves nestled inside it. Her reaction as he bullies her pleasure around its nest is poetry, her lashes flutter and her eyes and mouth open and she wails, long and high and desperate. Still fucking her with his finger, he burrows between her labia and draws her whole hood in his mouth, worrying her with his lips as his tongue continues to batt her pearl.

Her pitch clicks one notch higher, all the muscles in her arms stand firm as she strains with all her might at his restraints. “Fuck Force shit Stephen fuck-”

Her thighs clamp his cheeks, slick drooling between his knuckles and down his wrist, cunt squeezing him like a steel trap as he drags her shaking and keening towards the edge. The sounds his tongue and finger make as he fucks her are symphonic filth.

He knows her cries and her shakes like a needle knows the groove of a well-worn album, and he takes her right to the precipice, lets her peer over its crest into the sweet black abyss. But before her first shudder can hit, he pulls out and away.

“Happabore fucker!”

He lets out a short, startled laugh, holding her down by the backs of her things spread wide open in his huge, hard grip.

“Who taught you that?” he rasps.

“I know it wasn’t Himura,” he wrenches her down the sheets. Her arms extend taut, her slick-coated ass meets his heavy sac in warm, wet _slap_. He stops to savor of the sight of his big cock stretched along her panties, its crown kissing her navel below her perfect little belly button. “He’s mute…”

“Fuck you, _healer_ ,” she snarls, mouth trembling piteously as she struggles in his grasp, seeking friction.

 “See,” he gloats breathlessly as he notches her thighs over his hips. He takes his cock in hand and squeezes roughly. “I told you I’d have to cover your mouth.”

At the exact moment he shoves past her panties bunched aside and rams her, his hand claps over her mouth.

Her cunt knots around him, she bucks and comes screaming.

He fucks her in full, arching strokes that make her back bow and her head loll and the headboard shudder. He uses his hand not on her mouth to lift up one of hers knee towards his ribs, deepening his angle so that each hard upstroke takes a dig at her cervix. The dry rasp of lace on his shaft is everything as her slick coats him to his pubic hair, easing his path to her womb as her cunt tries to wring the life out of him.

He bows his head and presses his mouth straight to her ear as he moans, “Fuck, this little baby pussy… you’re so tight, Rey. It’s killing me you’re so tight-”

As if to prove his point, she cinches around him – he can feel every ripple in her walls as her body tries to drag him under and hold him at her hungry mouth. The hard crush of his ribs around his heart, the wet, sick sounds of their fucking, her muffled, pleading mewls, it’s all excruciating and exalting.

She is killing him.

And it is glorious.

“I’m going to fuck you raw, Rey,” he promises into her ear and down her spine.

She jerks and judders through another climax, cunt squeezing him until he can’t catch his breath. She says something, not as a scream or as a whimper, but soft, like a sigh. Her eyes roll listlessly and her lashes flutter, her body softens sweetly beneath him.

“What, baby?” he lifts his hand from her mouth. It’s wet with spit and the tears that have slipped from the corners of her eyes. She is smiling.

“You’re so good to me, Stephen,” she purrs, stretching under him, even though he’s still pounding her ruthlessly.

“Oh yeah?” he pants harshly, feeling his gut tense up and his spine harden and stack.

Because isn’t that his perfect poison. Her adoring, slurring, cock-drunk praise.

He lets her knee by his chest drop into the crook of his arm as he slips his hand under her, sliding in the wet that drips all the way to the small of her back as he cups her ass. His hand by her head threads through her hair, he cradles her like a baby.

His baby.

“Tell me,” he rasps, closing his eyes and tucking his chin into her shoulder as he pistons faster. He stays deep, relishing how her ankles notch together at his back and hold him close.

Her hands together stroke through his hair and she whispers, “I feel you everywhere, Stephen. I feel you in my heart. Force I love you-”

He is as deep as he can go, timing lost as he pumps hard and fast and erractic, battering at her door, _Open up, let me in. Please. Let me in let me in let me in-_

“Do you want me to come in you?” His hand fists in her hair.

It’s not a question.

“Yes, oh yes please,” she mews, so soft, so pretty, like it’s everything she’s ever wanted. Ever dreamed of. “Come in me. Come in me, Stephen, please. I love it-”

His breath snares in his throat, he lurches forward, over the threshold into her, into _home_ , and comes with a snarled, “ _Fuck, Rey-”_

He comes back down in stages.

First, he can hear past the ringing in his ears. Then, the static clears and he sees the pillowcase and her hair spread across it. After a few seconds, he still can’t feel his legs, but that’s fine.

He doesn’t have anywhere pressing to be.

Her arms are looped around his neck. She’s chattering quietly.

“-really liked that bit with the hand. I love your hands, I know you don’t like them but I think they look like little tigers. Did you see Master Wong’s face when you called me out of my lesson? That line was brilliant, about sensing a disturbance in the Force. Jedis say that all the time,” a long yawn, “But I do have to finish, or I’ll never be done with gerunds. Gerund, sounds like geranium. Oh, can we go to the market? I’d like to buy some flowers-”

“Rey,” he groans into the pillow. His eyes squeeze shut. He’s still inside her.

_That’s nice. Let’s just live here._

_Sunflowers._

She’s jabbering about sunflowers.

“-just think they’d be nice at the breakfast table. They sort of… smile at you. Like frogs, but flowe- oh, Stephen!” she gasps. Her arms come around his shoulders as the bindings on her wrists dissolve. She clutches him like something precious.

His heart presses at his ribs to touch her.

“Look,” she whispers.

He doesn’t need to look to know every surface of their room is filled with sunflowers, the kind with orange petals yielding yellow and seedbeds bigger than his hand.

He conjured them.

“Hush now. Go to sleep,” he rolls them on their sides, pleased when their sexes stay joined. She’ll be sore for sure, but he’ll coat her generously with the healing cream when they wake. “Count the flowers, if you have to.”

“One, two, three-”

“Si-lent-ly,” he enunciates.

“Oh, of course.” She kisses his crown.

She’s humming as she counts.

He’ll allow it.


	4. Pray You Heartfully

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rey's spirit animal is an Asgardian Demigod. Who knew?

“See?” Her fingers are fanned out, their tips trailing whisper-soft over the separated bins of plush animal skins as they walk, “I told you. This is where they make them. Any kind you can imagine. Like sandwiches.” She looks up at him. “Only for friends.”

“Most impressive.” Thor cocks his massive head, considering the unicorns dressed as pilots and the cats in tutus strung up above them in the store. “Which of these beasts shall we claim as ours?”

She chooses a chocolate-colored bear with warm eyes and a broad, stitched smile. His dark fur and lighter muzzle remind her of the beautiful swathes of steel in Stephen’s hair.

“He is the most handsome,” she declares, speaking of them both. The bear and her lover.

With her nose pressed against the plexiglass, she watches the filling roil and bubble as her bear is filled. Thor looms behind her, bending and squinting over her shoulder as he remarks, “Ah, so they do not use bone and entrails. How queer.”

“Do you know what I think is so perpendicular about it?” she pipes.

“Tell me, star witch.”

She follows the filling, soft and purely white, with her eyes. “They don’t have real hearts. Only pretend ones.”

His hard, square chin butts gently against her shoulder as he nods. “Surely.”

She turns, now nearly nose-to-nose with the God of Thunder. She tries looking in both his mismatched eyes at the same time.

It makes her dizzy.

“But then… how can they _really_ love?”

He considers her question deeply and decides, “They cannot.”

Her face falls. She looks at the bear laid face-down in the lap of the shopkeeper, a pretty grandmother in a blue apron, who pauses her sewing to pat her patient on his newly plumped bottom and assure him sweetly, “There now, almost done.”

The flash of the needle reminds her of Stephen’s hands.

 _Stiches_ , he’d explained to her once, when they were lying naked in bed together, warm and damp from making love. _Lots and lots of stiches_. 

The bitter hurt in his voice made her ache as she traced his trembling scars by the low orange light of the lamp. They were ridged and uneven, like the bumps on the pages of the books the blind Masters read from. If she studied the raised lines hard enough, could she finally know what they meant to him?

Thinking again of the bears with false hearts, she murmurs, “That makes me sad.”

A hand large enough to crush the skull of man with no effort engulfs the top of her head. Its weight is warm and reassuring. “The wizard is not a bear, little witch. His heart is real, brave and truly yours. As sure as the thunder is mine.”

She tips her chin up to see his fond smile through the thick, bare branches of his fingers. Her smile is rueful. “I wish I understood more.”

“Understanding is for the fool,” he tells her definitely. “You need only to know.”

“Here you are, my dear.” The kindly grandmother holds out her newly birthed bear with all the sheltering touch of nurse with a newborn baby. When Rey takes him, he is soft and warm. “You made an excellent choice.”

Thor’s hand slips away as she cradles him to her heart and closes her eyes. “I love him.”

“Would it please you to have more?”

Her eyes blink open. She looks around at the bins and baskets and shelves overflowing with plush, friendly colors.

She laughs. “What a rhetorical question.”

He grins, openly impressed with himself, and claps, “Bear-keeper! As many of your fine animal skins as can we procure for-”

He stops, remembering, “Five hundred American Earth dollars!”

“Please!” she chirps. Her bear dangles from her hands and dances, “God. Of. Thunder! God. Of. Thunder!”

Thor puffs, pleased.


	5. You Better Work, Bitch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tony Stark wants the Last Little Jedi to join Stark Enterprises. The fate of the Milky Way depends on it. But can Stephen convince his consort he can manage without her?

“Stephen,” she holds up her hand, examining her rings in the yellow sunlight that pours like milk and honey in through the kitchen window. The sleeve of her gown, so long it loops over her thumb and middle finger, glimmers in the morning light. “If penguins ate shrimps, like flamencos, would they be pink?”

“You mean fla- _min-goes,_ ” he taps the app on his phone twice to open his scheduler. His finger trembles over the day’s date as his appointments load. “And no, they would not.”

Lying on the table behind his breakfast plate, she rolls onto her side, jewels of her long necklace clinking softy on the hardwood. Her arm underneath her makes a triangle, she holds up her head with her cheek in her hand. “Why not?”

“The cuticles in their feathers are too dense to show the carotenoids in their diet,” he murmurs, brow furrowing as he struggles to read the Masters Meeting agenda in standard print. He does not need reading glasses.

He does not.

Her fingers walk across his plate towards his sausage. “Will _I_ turn pink if I eat shrimps?”

“Yes,” he says, struggling to type out a memo with just his juddering thumbs. The letters on the keyboard are smaller than pinpricks – surely, someone changed his settings to _Miniscule-_

“Stephen.”

The tip of a sausage link is aimed explicitly at his lips. Behind it, his consort’s bright golden eyes are watching him intensely.

She pokes him with the breakfast meat. Her tone is very serious, “You need to eat breakfast.”

He stacks his arms on the table, memo momentarily forgotten, and smirks. “You need to be less bossy.”

He takes the sausage between his teeth and winks. Instantly, she plucks up another.

“I ain’t bossin’.” Her free hand fusses with his hair while he chews. Before he can correct her English, she tells him, “You’re so sexable, do you know that?”

Because it’s rude to speak with your mouth full, and he’s trying to set a good example, he nods.

He lets her feed him with her fingers, sausage and egg on toast, even sipping at the coffee she tips towards him very carefully, only after she blows on it each time hard enough to make the black surface ripple and wave. It’s lukewarm by the third sip, and cool by the fifth, but she has a method, his Rey, from which she will not deviate.

He can appreciate that.

“Stephen,” she’s dabbing his mouth with the paw of her stuffed animal. “Can I tell you five things I don’t think are funny?”

He’s completely abandoned his phone, choosing instead to savor this – her beauty, laid out before him, the way her little mouth moves as she pipes, and her pampering.

The corners of his eyes crease with humor. “By all means.”

“Number one,” she tears off a piece of his toast and uses it to pinch up more scrambled egg. “Jokes about llamas-”

“Llamas?” he opens his mouth to accept her bite.

“Yes,” she nods, her lips drawn in a solemn line. “They can’t _help_ it if they’re dramatical. They’re poor creatures, and it’s horribly cruel to mock them.”

He nods, because what else can he do? “Absolutely. I agree.”

“Ha!” She swells, sitting up so abruptly he startles as her pretty little face twists in vindicated triumph. “See? I told Petah it was wrong!” At her stuffed pig, she points gleefully, “Ooo, wait til I see him again. He’s going to apologize to those llamas. I’ll make him-”

He blinks hard, distracted by her violent smile, and the emphatic rise and fall of her breasts at the neckline of her dress. “Wait, what?”

“Stephen,” Wong is standing at the threshold to the kitchen. His expression is infinitely grim. “We have a _guest._ ”

Stephen glances at the digital clock on the stove. The right-most _9_ tips over into a _0_ , and the rest of the numbers roll like billiard balls struck by a cue behind it. Eight o’clock.

_He’s right on time._

“Honestly, has he ever even _seen_ a llama? Are llamas just clopping all over Queens? I think not-” she looks up suddenly from where she’s shaming the pig with her finger. Her face, formerly flushed hot with outrage, goes four shades paler. “Guest?”

Stephen is already up from his seat, flicking crumbs of toast off the folds of his jade-colored robes. He feels her fingers wind around his bicep.

“Who is it?”

“Just an old friend.” He soothes her with a reassuring quirk of his lips before he tells Wong, “I’ll see him in my study.”

 

 

 

“Well. I wish I could say this is a pleasant surprise.”

“Let me guess,” the man standing by his green wingback glances up from the books he’s perusing on the side table. He’s dressed in a designer running suit that costs more than the mortgage payment on a townhome in Brooklyn. His chest plate glows pale blue in the shadowy study. “The Swami Supreme saw me coming.”

“I had a vision, yes,” Stephen moves carefully into the room. He’s seen this conversation, many, many times. He’s not looking forward to it.

“You know…” Stark is still examining the titles on the table. He picks one and holds it up for Stephen to see.

_Green Eggs and Ham._

He smirks. “I took you for more of a Hemingway guy.”

Stephen’s fingers flex, and the book slips out of Stark’s hand to join the others. Their spines neaten, they move like a ballet of swans, dipping over the lip of the table to land gracefully in the basket below it.

“I have a meeting ten minutes,” his tone is elegant and clipped. “Ask your question, so I can give you the answer and get on with my day.”

“See, that’s the thing, Doc.” Stark slips his hands inside his pockets. His chin angles, he’s wearing an insipid smile Stephen wants to swipe right off his face. “I didn’t come here to ask you for anything-”

“How _dare_ him!” Stephen hears her menacing chirp from foyer, and the hard slap of her little bare feet on the hardwood as she stamps up the stairs. “No Master Wong! Stephen is _busy_. That man cannot just come smashing into our home-”

Stark’s grin widens. “Speak of the lady and she doth appear.”

 _Jesus,_ Stephen thinks, as the door to the study arcs and strikes the bookcase beside it hard enough to rattle some of the rare texts off their shelves.

Rey appears in the doorway, all ninety pounds of her, the sleek skirt of her gown clenched inside her fists, teeth bared, stuffed animal tucked between her tits. Its snout pokes out from her cleavage, two threaded eyes stare at him balefully.

_Jesus. Fucking. Christ._

“Well well well,” she says, like a mystery detective who’s caught the murderer with his blood-caked candlestick. “If it isn’t Tony the Tinkerer.”

She folds her arms beneath her breasts. One of the pig’s paws pops out of her dress in salutation.

“Lady Strange,” the arrogant billionaire has the nerve to roll his hand through the air and bow. “We meet again.”

She hikes her chin and glowers. “Misfortunately.”

“So how yah doin’ honey? How’s New York treatin’ yah?”

“I am not your honey, stupid squeak-mouse,” she snaps, even as she shifts behind Stephen.

“Lady Rey,” Wong is just outside in the hallway, hands folded behind his back. His expression is perfectly placid, but Stephen has known him long enough to read the extreme displeasure in his eyes. His tone low and stern. “The lady of the Sanctum does not verbally abuse her Sorcerer’s guests-”

Stephen holds out his hand. “It’s alright.”

“No,” Rey leans into a snarl directed at Stark, “It’s _not_ alright. Stephen has loads and loads of importantable things to do today. And he doesn’t like you.”

He expects her to add, _So ha!_ at the end. And is proud when she restrains herself.

Stark smirks, wholly unimpressed.

“Stephen,” he imitates her inflection as he lays a hand over his heart. “I thought you adored me. I’m crushed.”

“You’ll get over it,” Stephen assures him with narrowed eyes. He gestures behind him to the doorway. “My lady has asked you to leave.”

“Yeah, and see, here’s the thing about that-” Stark swaggers closer, then stops short when Rey bares her teeth and hisses like a spooked cat. “I really need your help. Not Merlin’s, and not John Dalton’s over here-”

Wong puffs.

“Yours. Lady Strange, Rey of Jakku,” he draws out her name. His hands open at his sides. “You’re my only hope.”

Her eyes narrow. “How do you mean that?”

From his pocket, Stark produces the item Stephen has seen over and over again inside his visions.

A hand-held kyber crystal reactor, capable of creating a beam of laser the length of a sword. It's metal, and black.

She reacts like stark has dropped a live cobra on the carpet. Her hands reach for and twist in Stephen's tunic, she presses herself against his back as she peers around his bicep. “That’s- that’s his light saber. The Sith’s-” she looks at Stark, terror in her wide, beautiful eyes. “Where in the galaxy did you get it?”

“It’s all that was left of him after-” Stark waves the reactor in Stephen’s direction, and Stephen feels her physical flinch behind him, “Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone here painted half of Manhattan with him.”

Stephen smirks at the memory of the boy with the bisected face who met his demise with a snarl.

_Oh yeah, that._

“We’ve got something else, too,” Stark double-taps the face of his watch and flicks his wrist, and the study is suddenly filled with a three-dimensional model of a star ship. Even in translucent blue light, it’s monstrous and menacing.

“The Dreadnaught,” she whispers, finally stepping around him. She looks up and down, left to right, turning as she takes it all in with wonder, “You salvaged it.”

“Mostly,” Stark slips his hands inside his pockets. There’s a hint of pride in the angle of his chin. “Here’s the thing, jelly bean.” He waits for Rey to look at him. “This technology? We’re a hundred years behind it, at least. And that’s saying something, coming from me.”

He steps closer. She draws back, all the way back, until her plush bottom bumps up against Stephen.

Not that he minds.

“I need an expert, someone who knows the materials, the circuiting, the parts – how they all fit together.” Stark’s fingers interlock as he pauses. Then they press together, as if in prayer. “I need you, Rey.”

His plea hangs in the air between them, then drops loaded and flightless onto the rug when she doesn’t answer. She simply looks, through the hologram, into his eyes.

Reading his mind, Stephen realizes.

That’s the only part of his vision he’s never understood, why she pauses so long before she answers. Now he does.

She pauses to read Stark’s mind.

“You,” she says finally, “you want to protect your…” her nose wrinkles cutely, “pepper-pot?”

Over her shoulder, she looks up at Stephen. “Whassat?”

“His lady,” he clarifies, smirking down at her. “Miss Pepper Pots.”

“Oh.” Her face softens with sympathy. Tenderly, as if Stark isn’t here, and Peppa isn’t peering tacitly from between her breasts, she reaches up to touch his face. Her eyes trace his features, so overwhelmingly full of love.

And yet.

Not one-tenth of what he feels for her in his smallest finger.

His beautiful baby girl.

“Stephen. Can you really spare me? Is that even possilable?”

Inwardly, he cringes at the idea. Her anxiety is like her moods, boundless and unpredictable. And she is still so vulnerable, so unfamiliar with his world. Her world.

Their world.

But. His hands, he finds, are around her hips, guiding her through a turn into his chest as he murmurs, “For a few hours a day? I think I could manage…”

“Heh-hem,” still inside the doorway, Wong is positively choking on the impropriety. “The lady of the Sanctum does not work outside the home-”

“What do you want, pretty baby?” Stephen cups her face, thumbs her cheek. 

She says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the galaxy, “To protect you, Stephen. Always.”

His chest aches.

“Then you have your answer.”

Before she turns back, she kisses him. Long and sweet and unashamed.

_On Jakku, the people and all the animals make love under the stars. S’natural._

She is a wildling, his Rey.

His Rey.

“Alright, tinkerer, I’ll help you,” she says to Stark, as Stephen discreetly wipes her lipstick off his goatee with his sleeve. “But for one condition.”

"Hey," Stark grins like a madman as his arms open wide at his sides. “I live to serve.”

 

 

 

 

 

“Stephen. Do you have your briefbox?”

“My briefcase. And yes.”

“And your tray-lations?” she squints, suspicious.

His mouth quirks on one side before he sounds out for her, “Trans-lations.”

“Well,” she huffs, arms crossed under her little breasts. The jewels woven through her hair tinkle. “Do you have ‘em or not?”

“You know,” he props one shoulder against the doorjamb to the kitchen, fully grinning now. “I did make it forty-two years, before I met you.” He shrugs, _Just saying._

Her nose hikes in the air as she sniffs, “Barely.”

“What about you?” he gestures with his chin as he slips the strap of his leather work satchel over his shoulder. His eyes follow the sleek line of her gem-green dress all the way to the floor. He tried to tell her an evening gown wasn’t _exactly_ appropriate attire for Stark’s labs, but that had resulted in her determinedly pushing more pearl flower pins into her long plaited hair.

She loves her dress-up, this one.

“Ready for your first day?”

She takes a second delicate sip of coffee from his mug, not even bothering to hide her face screwed up in a grimace after she swallows. “Yeah.”

He cocks his chin, lips twitching hopelessly against a grin, and asks as seriously as possibly he can, “How ‘bout you, Peppa?”

The pig stares back unimpressed. Ironically, she’s dressed in a little white lab coat, stitched painstakingly by Wong at Rey’s ardent behest.

 _She cannot go_ naked _, Master Wong. That would be totally uns’eptable._

“Nope, no jitters? Good,” he nods, stealing another look at Rey’s pretty, nervous flustering. “Very good…”

Her hands smooth down the skirt of her dress in a loop, rings gleaming on her small fingers.

He pushes off the doorframe, slipping on his sling-ring as he quirks his eyebrow down at her. “My lady? We don’t want to be late.”

“Right then, shake your tail, Peppa,” she chides, abandoning the cold mug for her doll. Her hand trembles in the crook of his elbow as she takes it. “Stephen. Are you ten thousand-percent positive you can really manage-”

He draws the crackling swirl of gold sparks before she can bolt. “Oh, absolutely.”

“Coz I can stay, you just say so and I’ll ‘splain to Peppa the whole thing’s off. She’ll be wildly dis’pointed, but if we bake her a chocolate chip cake-”

“Peppa’s going to do great,” he leans down with a conspiratorial gleam to speak into her ear, “I’ve seen it.”

It’s a feat not to chuckle out loud when her breath catches and she turns, wide-eyed and lips so close to his, but he manages. Somehow. “You had a vision?” she whispers.

“Mm-hm,” he nods. His hand spans out in front of them, sweeping his words over the open, whirling mouth of the portal. “Lady Strange, consort to the Sorcerer Supreme, Master Tinkerer. Assisted by Peppa Pig, esquire.”

She squares her shoulders back, hikes her chin. Her eyes gleam hard as diamonds in the sparking light. “Right. I’m ready.”

He guides them through quickly, before he laughs.

Waiting on the other side, Starks greets them with champagne flutes and a shit-eating grin. “Rey of Jakku? Welcome, to Stark Enterprises.”


	6. Hover Over The Waters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set in Katmandu, before their established relationship.
> 
> Stephen Strange knows better than most, sometimes the right choice can look like the wrong one.

“This is your _other_ home?” Her voice is full of wonder. She peers up at the intricate, carved moldings of the halls at Kamar-taj. Her fingertips trail a bamboo tapestry hung near the door of the bedroom he stayed in as a student. The bedroom she’ll be using while she’s here.

A little masochistic symmetry. Kind of his thing, lately.

The scene on the bamboo mat is of a gold-green dragon lapping at the edge of a blue pond.

She cannot possibly know the images it conjures up inside him, of his head between her smooth, tan thighs, as she sways inside the small space until their bodies meet in the softest of kisses.

“It’s beautiful,” she breathes up at him. Her hands tuck in at his chest.

“Yes,” he agrees, counting the flecks of gold in her irises. Incredible, a girl made of stars. “It is very beautiful.”

Her lashes flicker like candle flame. She drops her gaze to his mouth. “I like it a lot here.”

“Uh-huh,” he rumbles eloquently.

The sun is sieving through the ornate grate over the window at the end of the hall. It drenches her in pale, rose-colored light, illuminating the dust particles that hang in the air around her. She is beauty, he decides.

Without meaning to, his hands have come around her to cup her face. Her cheeks are flushed hot against his palms.

“Stephen-” she whispers. He can taste her sweet breath.

 _Funny_ , a voice muses. It’s a thousand miles away. _We must be getting very close…_

“Uh-huh…” The way his face drifts down to hers is like winter’s first snowfall, slow and soft. Their noses touch. He nuzzles.

She nuzzles back.

Neither one of them blinks.

 _This is a very bad idea_ , the voice is warning. Further, further, it's floating almost out of earshot now.

Almost.

“Stephen-” This time, he feels her lips move against his as she says his name. He steals the sigh that comes after, as he closes the last slip of space between them in a kiss.

She melts into him. Her body, her breath, her mouth - are incredibly warm. He tilts her in his hands and takes more, reaching deeper with firm strokes of his tongue.

She whimpers. Her hands twist in his robes.

His world is helter-skelter as he’s pulled forward by her infinite, inconsequential strength. His hand behind her head softens the blow as they bump up together against the wall. Well, she hits the wall. He hits-

 _Oh boy_ , the voice says, as in the next instant, her naked thighs are up around his hips. He cups their tender undersides as her legs stack behind him and she wraps her arms fully around his neck. Grinding down on his erection, she pants into his mouth.

Even through the layers of his robes and her wrappings, he can feel her hot little sex.

“Okay okay, Rey-”

With tremendous effort, he peels their lips apart. “Honey, slow down.”

“I want to mount,” she mews, her mouth wet and kiss-swollen. Her tough little fingers work at the overlap of his robes. Her chest above her breasts is flushed, the backs of her thighs burn his hands like he’s holding the sun.

In spite of everything, his mouth twitches. She doesn’t mince her words, his girl.

 _Not your girl_ , tisks the voice.

He flinches, shame-filled.

“Rey,” he presses in lightly to keep her propped, then covers her hands with his own. He despises their shake. “I can’t do that, baby.”

She struggles, drawing him closer between her scissoring thighs as she twists a little harder at his clothes. “Yes, Stephen. Mount.” Her face cracks. “Please…”

His blood thrums painfully hard through his cock, _Yes mount mount mount mount…_

The vision is clear as crystal inside his mind - the two of them just like this but bare, him buried to the hilt inside her. Her whimpering and bleating, sorry she ever asked him for this, and asking him for more, as he takes everything she’s got. The scene tips backwards, so that she’s lying under him as he fucks her, moves through her, makes love to her. Endlessly. Endlessly-

“Stop,” he steps out of the frame and out of her embrace. If he does this, if he takes her, this little lamb-child the fucking _Force,_ of all devils, has dropped into his lap, how is he any different from the Sith who hunts her?

His hands on her hips steady her as her legs drop off his waist and she slips down the wall. The bamboo hanging tears from its nail. It clatters to the floor as she tries to follow him. “No, just- stop. Stop.”

He’s looking at her down the length of his arm where he’s pinned her, but the hurt on her face feels like it’s coming straight from his chest. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t-” He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have lost control like that.”

“I don’t understand. Control of what?” she’s looking at him like she can’t tell if he’s dumb, crazy, or cruel.

Definitely the first two, he thinks wryly. “Myself. I can’t lose control of myself.”

But she must decide it is cruelty, because she slaps his hand off of her heart, hard, and spits, “Animal.”

She’s so small, but her anger fills the hallway. Where most women wither under rejection, his Rey reacts with outrage.

He has to stop calling her that. His.

She isn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he raises his hands. They tremble, ugly and crippled and benign. Self-loathing twists his gut. “I promise, it won’t happen again.”

Her face falls. “But why, Stephen? Why can’t you-” she pats her small sex, as if her meaning wasn’t already perfectly, painfully clear. Her eyes become soft with sympathy. “Are you sick?”

_Yes._

“I’ve told you, it’s- you’re too young. And vulnerable. You need me to help you, not-”

_Take advantage._

_Fuck you to pieces._

_Lock you in my Sanctum and wrap you up in furs. Feed you lavishly from my fingers and fill your belly with my babies…_

_Thanks,_ he sneers at the voice, as his cock swells to bursting. _Thanks a lot._

The fast-fading sunset streams in and cuts the air between them, drawing the line in the sand with its light. She steps through it, brave and unknowing and unafraid.

It is why he loves her.

At least he can admit that to himself.

“That’s ‘diculous. Stephen-”

“Enough,” he says, more sharply than he means to. He holds up his hand. Twilight glances off the metal of his rings as she halts.

“Enough,” he repeats, softer. But the message in the slant of his shoulders, his cool blue eyes staring down into hers is the same. _I won’t._ “I am going to stop the Sith, and then you're going back.”

She blinks, utterly and beautifully confused, as the tears collected in the corners of her eyes fall like shooting stars. “Back to what? He took everything. I have nothing.”

She shook her head. “Nothing.”

The look in her eyes splits his spirit to the bone.

“Please,” she’s begging him, her little hands on his chest, over his strangling heart. “ _Please._ I can’t go back, don’t make me go back. Don’t make me be alone-”

His arms, treacherous and sure and strong, are already around her. He crushes her to him like he’s going to hide her inside his ribs from the Sith. From the world and his better judgement. From the stupid fucking Force.

“- you don’t have to mount me, you don’t even have to look at me. I swear I won’t get in your way. I’ll never say nothin’ and I’ll sleep on the roof and I won’t eat any of your portions and I’ll do loads of chores -”

“Shh, Rey. Shh-shh, Rey. Rey, baby-”

She looks up at him. The tip of her tiny nose is red, she’s absolutely weeping.

Heart wringing, he cups the back of her head in one shaking hand and presses her back to his chest. His cheek lays down in her hair as his eyes close against the fading sunlight. He does not know what they’ll do, how they’ll live, he doesn’t know how to keep this light, this precious flicker of a candle flame, burning through the night.

Darkness is coming. Beyond it, he cannot see their future.

But there is one thing he does know.

“I’m keeping you. Forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you're enjoying these. Just some fun little slices of an avant-garde pear : )


	7. It's Not Unusual...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's a new Lady of the Sanctum

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, we bounce around this timeline like nobody's business. But I just wanna write the fun parts.
> 
> Sue me. 
> 
> Takes place when they first get together.

She stares at the girl inside the mirror as her hands run over her gown. The deep green fabric is as soft as fur but smoother, except where the silver threading weaves a loose pattern of stars.

“It’s the zodiac,” he explains, stepping in behind her. His trembling touch chases the constellations scattered across her body as he speaks into her ear, “The symbols we’ve made in our stars. This one,” he rasps over her belly, “is Sagittarius… this one,” along the curve of her hip, “is Pisces… and this one,” above her breast, “Libra.”

“Libra,” she repeats softly, her eyes drifting shut as his lips touch her neck. “That’s such a pretty word.”

“This kind of dress is the custom for a consort of,” his warm breath crackles like soft static at the base of her spine, “the Sorcerer Supreme.”

His arms close slowly around her, his voice lulling her somewhere wonderful and deep.

“I love it,” she whispers as he threads their fingers together at her navel. Below them, her sex throbs.

“These rings are very special,” he rests his chin on her shoulder, his beard pricking sweetly at her skin. She melts aching into his embrace. “They carry my magic. Wherever you go, they will protect you. And while you wear them,” his timber goes dark, “no other man can touch you.”

She swallows. The motion feels a million years long.

When she looks back into the mirror, her lips are parted. Her eyes meet his along the glass, so purely, impossibly blue as they stare into her.

“Are you going to touch me?” she asks. Her words hardly make a sound.

Yet he hears them, because his hands are suddenly everywhere, wide and firm and sure. Light slants through his eyes as he lifts his lips to speak directly into her ear, “So much, Rey. You have no idea, the things I’m going to do to you.”

Her lashes flicker. She’s not going to be able to stand much longer if he keeps touching her like this.

_Please keep touching me. Keep touching me, please-_

“Do you want me to show you?” he asks. His face is still turned towards hers, but his eyes are watching her in the mirror.

She nods, frenetic. “Yes. Yes, yes.”

A whisper in another language, soft motions of his hand, and her gown is gone. She stands naked inside his arms, her hair still gathered artfully off her neck, long jeweled earrings glimmering above her shoulders, his charmed rings cool and foreign-feeling around her small fingers.

Behind her, he is completely dressed.

Without preamble, he slips his hand between her thighs and strokes the seam of her sex.

She is quivering, wet, unraveling.

She is gloriously alive.

“Stephen,” her hands grip his hard, thick forearm as he glides his thumb along her clit. His robes are smooth and textured, the Eye of Agamotto makes gentle impressions in her back. “Stephen-”

He slips two fingers inside her. Her head tips back against his shoulder, she can feel every detail, every ridge and groove, as he works along her walls. In and around her, his touch trembles, along with her legs and with her heart.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs in wonder. “So small.”

She can’t speak, her lungs are cinched too tight. He strokes something hidden and sacred within her, and her clenches around him, drawing him deeper as her slick surges.

They both moan.

“Stephen,” she whimpers up to God. Her nipples are pebbled so tightly they hurt. Everywhere hurts, and everything is good.

Absolutely, she’s dying.

Her horizon tilts and she’s sliding as he bows down to lift her in his arms. Without his fingers, she’s hollow.

“Stephen-”

“It’s coming,” he lays her down amongst the covers. The Eye hangs between them, brushing cool and soothing in the valley of her breasts.

His bed is soft, it smells like parchment and coffee and sweat and Stephen. She wants to live right here, under him. Forever.

More incantations, small, expert clicks of his hands, and his clothes are gone.

He is beauty.

“God,” she doesn’t wait for him as he climbs onto the bed and over her. Her fingers find her sex on their own, juddering over the swollen, live flesh there.

She is drenched.

“Stephen’s fine,” he smirks, even as his murmur shakes and he can’t quite control his breathing. He sounds like he’s trying to breathe underwater.

“Are you ok?” she asks, touching his cheek and watching him until her eyes go hooded and dark. He’s chased away her hand and replaced them with his own bigger, rough-textured one.

He’s two knuckles deep as he rasps, “Adrenaline. Lots and lots of adrenaline- fuck you're tight.”

His fingers coil and beckon, and like magic, her body rises, back arching, pelvis pressing down into the mattress to narrow her sex even more. He picks a slow tempo, keeping his come-hither curl against the roof of her cunt as he bends down to nose at her nipple.

The simple sensation is electrifying. She clenches around him, mewling, convulsing when his eyes slide up to meet hers as he takes her into his mouth. He draws deeply and works her between his lips, tonguing the tip of her sensitive peak before mouthing her whole areole.

She hears a sound she’s never heard before, of a sound of thousand strings singing sweetly together, somewhere in her heart. Her belly flutters, it’s all she can do not to scream when his thumb circles around her clit.

“You don’t have to be quiet,” he tells her, his lips dragging achingly between her breasts. He looks into her eyes. “It’s your party, baby. Cry if you want to.”

She nods. Her hands, where are her hands?

She sees they’re pulling the covers by either side of her head.

“Can I touch you?”

His fingers stroking inside her stutter. His eyes crease warmly at their corners. “Yes, Rey. You can touch me.”

“Okay.” Her hands are everywhere, all over his body – his hard, muscular body. He is power under her fingertips, flexing hot and smooth like sun-warmed stone. Eyes closed, she rakes through his hair, reveling the feel of it, the lush softness, juxtaposed to the firm, relentless slosh of his fingers inside her wet cunt. Her lashes flicker in time with the chase of his thumb around and around her clit.

The pressure builds low in her belly, the muscles folding in on themselves as she gets closer and closer to the nucleus of her pleasure.

“Don’t come,” he warns in her ear.

_Why would he say such a thing?_

The next moment, his touch is gone.

Oh, because he wants to kill her.

“Stephen,” she keens, back bowing in anguish. “Stephan!”

His hands slip under her shoulders and grip over. Her world is sliding again, she opens her eyes in time to see the ceiling glide by as his face rises over her like the crest of a wave. Something hot and wide presses between her thighs.

There are too many things to process – the backs of her knees slotted in the groove of his hips, the fact that he’s still wearing the Eye, time itself dangling between them, or that she’s shaking so hard her teeth chatter.

His eyes looking into hers are the bluest they’ve ever been. He says, “Say my name.”

It’s the only thing she can say. “Stephen.”

He comes into her in one long rush.

The hot splice, the stretch, is too big, too much. It hurts.

It’s not enough.

“Stephen!”

He brings her back to him, over and over, as he connects deeply with her womb. His strokes are long and blazing. Her walls are too hot, too stretched, she can feel every vein along his shaft, rasping her tender flesh as he takes and takes more.

She wants him to never, never stop.

“Stephen!”

His face is contorted around a snarl. Hellish. Angelic. “Say it-”

“Stephen!”

“Who does this pussy belong to?”

Her violent convulsion is one for the ages, and so is his red-faced, spit-spraying roar, “ _Say it!”_

“Stephen!”

If this is love, she wants it eternal.

“Again,” his body folds over hers, hands following her arms to find her wrists and pin her. His pace has increased, the burning brutal, and her soul is swelling outside her body, she’s sure of it. “Say it again.”

“Stephen,” she begs. _More more more. Kill me more._

Her cunt squeezes him, trying in vain to trap him deeper, closer to where she wants him.

All the way up to her heart.

“Jesus fucking little pussy,” he snarls, fucking her faster with hard, shallow strokes that batter her cervix and slap loud and wet across her thighs. He’s right in her ear as he growls filth in a voice that’s his but isn’t, “Fuck this little baby pussy, God your little cunt’s so tight, you like that big cock tearing up your pussy, baby?”

She bounces and bobs, eyes pinched shut, concentrating on his graveling inside her belly. The hot, hard pound of his cock inside her is pushing her under. She breathes in fits and starts, and only when she remembers to.

“Tell me,” he’s talking now between his teeth. “Tell me you want this cock.”

“I- I- ughn, God-”

“No, not God,” impossibly, he fucks her faster. The pressure is too good, the lightning push-pull too much to bear. “Stephen. _Say it_.”

She does scream then, like glass shattering on top of porcelain. Over and over and over. “Stephen! Stephen! Stephen!”

_Stephen Stephen Stephen Stephen-_

With a sudden snap, she comes so hard her thoughts white out.

New. He’s washed her white as snow.

He is washing her, she realizes some infinite seconds later, as she floats down from the ceiling. He is bathing her belly in his come.

She shudders into another orgasm, a warm wave dragging her back out just as she’s crawled to shore.

“You’re a fantasy,” he tells her, chuckling breathlessly.

His voice is so deep-dark.

Hers is ethereal, “So are you.”

She is light as a feather floating on the ocean.

“Yeah? You like that?” He is speaking from within her chest now. She’s sure of it.

“It’s my favorite,” she tells him, listening to the static and her heartbeat winding down.

Where the rest of her is, she has no idea.

He laughs again, his breath tickling through her ear and pelting her tender spine.

Her eyes are closed, or closing, or maybe she was opening them but forgot. She wants to see him before she goes under, into the deep sleep that’s calling her name across the stars.

She turns her head, and he’s there, waiting for her.

Watching. This man is always, always watching.

“Hey, pretty baby,” he murmurs. Just like in her dreams.

In this moment, she is fully alive.

“Hi, Stephen.” Tenderly, tiredly, she strokes his beard.

 His eyes crease at the corners. Has he always smiled this much?

“Sleep,” he tells her. Dimly, she feels him rearrange her, tucking her closer, deeper into his embrace. His cock is still inside her.

 _It’s okay,_ something whispers, _he’ll keep watch._

She closes her eyes, and slips away into darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're having a nice time, lemme know : )

**Author's Note:**

> Your comments and kudos are wanted and adored. 
> 
> Find me on Tumblr: https://royramsey.tumblr.com/


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